Life after death

Lou Sedaris was a difficult man who had always baffled his children. So when he died at 98, where would they begin with his funeral?

- David Sedaris

TEN DAYS BEFORE MY FATHER DIED, he suffered a small stroke and fell. Or perhaps he fell and then had the stroke. Either way, it surprised me when people asked what was the cause of death. I mean, he was 98! Wasn’t that cause enough?

I visited him shortly after his fall, flew down from New York with Amy and Hugh. Gretchen and Paul met us at Springmoor, but he was essentially gone by then. There was a livid gash on his forehead, and he was propped up in his bed, which seemed ridiculously short, like a cut-down one you’d see in a department store. His eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and behind his lips swayed a glistening curtain of spittle.

“Dad?” Amy said.

An aide entered and shook his leg. “Mr Sedaris? Lou? You got some family here to see you.” She looked at us, then back at our father. “He pretty much be this way now.” Another shake of the leg. “Mr Sedaris?”

In response our father gasped for breath.

“Well, he looks good,” Amy said, pulling a chair up to his bedside. Who is she comparing him to?, I wondered. Google “old man dying”, and I’m pretty sure you’ll see exactly what was in front of us: an unconscious skeleton with just a little meat on it, moaning.